The two full screens showed an upstairs corridor and the master bedroom. Nightingale started with the ‘Study’ button, then worked his way methodically through all twenty-eight cameras. There was no sign of the cat. He noticed a cupboard to the left of the desk and opened it to find a computer with slots for six DVDs. He pressed ‘eject’ but all were empty. If recordings had been made of the CCTV feeds, they weren’t there now.
Nightingale returned to the view of the master bedroom and leaned back in the chair. He could just make out the rust-coloured stain where Gosling’s body had lain after he’d pulled the trigger. Had there been anyone in the basement when Gosling had killed himself? Probably not: he wouldn’t have wanted any witnesses. A shotgun in the mouth wasn’t a cry for help. He’d just wanted to end it all. He must have dismissed the staff before he did it.
Nightingale stared at the bed, the chair and the candles surrounding the circle, which had presumably offered some form of magical protection. Gosling must have believed he was safe if he stayed inside it, which implied that he would have had to remain there all the time. But there was no food in the room, and no way of getting to the bathroom without leaving the circle, so if Gosling had been inside it for any length of time he must have had someone in the house to help him, to bring him food and deal with his waste. He took out his wallet and flicked through it until he found the Neighbourhood Watch card given to him by the policeman he’d met the first time he’d come to the house. He tapped out the number on his mobile.
‘Sergeant Wilde? This is Jack Nightingale – I own Gosling Manor. You were around with your colleague earlier this week.’
‘You can call me Harry, Jack. You outranked me when you were in the job, so it’s only fair.’
‘Can you talk?’
‘I just got home and my wife’s burning my dinner as we speak so, yes, fire away. How can I help you?’
‘You said that Gosling’s driver let you into the house after he’d found the body.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Was there anyone else in the house?’
‘At the time he killed himself? No. He’d sent what staff there were home the night before.’
‘So there were people still working at the house? Even though the furniture had all gone?’
‘There was a skeleton staff, I think. An old woman who did the cooking and a bit of cleaning, and her husband tidied the garden. The driver doubled as butler.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got their phone numbers, have you?’
‘Why? Is there a problem?’
‘No, I just need someone to keep the place clean, I thought the old staff might be the best bet,’ lied Nightingale. ‘I’m not that handy with the old mop and brush, to be honest.’
‘You and me both.’ The policeman laughed. ‘Let me have a look through my old notes. Can I call you on this number?’
‘Day or night,’ said Nightingale, and ended the call.
He wandered past the bookshelves, running his fingers along the spines. He stopped at one titled The Devil and His Works and pulled it out. It was a large leather-bound volume by Sir Nicholas Weatherby, published in 1924. Nightingale wondered what a knight was doing writing a book about the devil. He flicked to the index. There were four references to ‘summoning the devil’. The first mentioned it in passing, the second and third were biblical quotes about Satan, but the fourth took up half a dozen pages in the final chapter. Nightingale carried the book to Gosling’s desk and sat down to read.
Sir Nicholas began with a stern warning about the dangers of any sort of interaction with Satanic forces. Many who tried ended up dead or deranged, and only highly experienced Satanists should ever attempt to make contact with the devil or his demons. Nightingale laughed at the author’s flowery language – his style seemed more suited to a Barbara Cartland romance than a serious treatise on the dark arts.
In the next paragraph Sir Nicholas detailed a spell that he said guaranteed an appearance by Satan himself. ‘It is,’ said Sir Nicholas, ‘only to be used by a level-nine Satanist with the protection of a magic circle fortified by holy water blessed by the Pontiff.’
Nightingale couldn’t see how repeating a few words, none of which made any apparent sense, could achieve anything, let alone summon the devil. He stood up and, in a loud voice, slowly recited the first sentence. ‘Bagabi laca bachabe Lamc cahi achababe Karrelyos,’ he said. He stopped and listened but all was still. He smiled to himself. What had he expected? The stench of brimstone? A flash of lightning? It was nonsense. ‘Lamac lamec Bachalyas,’ he continued. He paused again. Nothing had changed. It hadn’t got colder or hotter, lighter or darker. There was no sign that the words were having any effect at all. His heart was racing and his mouth had dried even though he knew it was a charade. He kept his finger on the page so that he wouldn’t lose his place, and continued: ‘Cabahagy sabalyos Baryolas Lagoz atha cabyolas Samahac et famyolas Harrahya.’
When he reached the end he put down the book and stood up. ‘Is anybody there?’ he said. His voice echoed around the basement. ‘Anybody?’ He grinned. ‘I thought not. The whole thing’s bollocks.’ He held the book above his head. ‘If it isn’t bollocks, and if there really is a devil, then strike me down now – do your worst. Come on you bastard! Do your worst!’
He caught sight of himself in an ornate gilt mirror and realised how ridiculous he was being to even entertain the idea that a few mumbled words would summon a demon from hell. He winked at his reflection. ‘Only joking,’ he said.
He turned away and walked down to the bank of surveillance monitors. Something moved on one of the small screens. A car at the entrance to the estate. Nightingale leaned over the console and pressed the button to bring up the picture on one of the big screens. He doubted that the devil would turn up in a Ford Mondeo. He watched Robbie Hoyle climb out of his car and walk over to the speakerphone. A handset on the left of the console buzzed and Nightingale picked it up. ‘Hi, Robbie,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’
‘How did you know it was me?’ said Hoyle.
‘Smile, you’re on Candid Camera.’
Hoyle looked around until he spotted the camera and waved. ‘Are you going to let me in or what?’
‘You’re not trying to sell me something?’
‘No.’
‘And you’re not a Mormon or a Jehovah’s Witness?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘You’re not the devil, are you?’
‘What?’
‘The devil. Can you prove that you really are Robbie Hoyle and you’re not the devil in disguise?’
‘Don’t be a prick, Jack. Jenny told me you were here and said we should talk.’
‘I’ll take that as a no.’
Nightingale couldn’t see a button that operated the gates. He took the handset away from his head. There was a single button below the mouthpiece and he pushed it. On the screen the gates began to open. ‘Thank you so much,’ said Hoyle, and walked back to the car.
Hoyle was still just halfway down the drive when Nightingale opened the front door. He parked in front of the house next to the MGB and climbed out. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
‘What did the lovely Miss McLean tell you?’
‘That your uncle killed his wife then topped himself.’
‘That’s pretty much it.’
‘Bloody hell, Jack. What happened?’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. I spoke to them on the phone and they were okay. When I drove up on Sunday she was dead in the kitchen and he was hanging from the attic trapdoor.’